e at that moment is not enough, or is not sufficiently
appreciated, to warrant reprinting. It drops out of sight and its place is
taken by another, fresh from the press. This part of our moving literature
is what is called ephemeral, and properly so; but no stigma necessarily
attaches to the name. In the first place, it is impossible to draw a line
between the ephemeral and the durable. "One storm in the world's history
has never cleared off," said the wit--"the one we are having now." Yet the
conditions of to-day, literary as well as meteorological, are not
necessarily lasting.

We are accustomed to regard what we call standard literature as
necessarily the standard of innumerable centuries to come, forgetful of
the fact that other so-called standards have "had their day and ceased to
be." Some literature lasts a century, some a year, some a week; where
shall we draw the line below which all must be condemned as ephemeral? Is
it not possible that all literary work that quickly achieves a useful
purpose and having achieved it passes at once out of sight, may really
count for as much as one that takes the course of years to produce its
slow results? The most ephemeral of all our literary productions--the
daily paper--is incalculably the most influential, and its influence
largely depends on this dynamic quality that has been noted--the
penetrative power of a thing of light weight moving at a high speed. And
this penetrative power effective literature must have to-day on account of
the vastly increased mass of modern readers.

Reading is no longer confined to a class, it is well-nigh universal, in
our own country, at least. And the habit of mind of the thoughtful and
intent reader is not an affair of one generation but of many. New readers
are young readers, and they have the characteristics of intellectual
youth.

Narrative--the recapitulation of one's own or someone else's experience,
the telling of a story--is the earliest form in which artistic effort of
any kind is appreciated. The pictorial art that appeals to the young or
the ignorant is the kind that tells a story--perhaps historical painting
on enormous canvasses, perhaps the small genre picture, possibly something
symbolic or mythological; but at any rate it must embody a narrative,
whether it is that of the signing of a treaty, a charge of dragoons, a
declaration of love or the feeding of chickens. The same is true of music.
The popular song tells something,